Opacity
by Tomo Trillions
Summary: [Unrequited Crowley slash] Love is black. Love is everything. Love is ineffable.
1. the demon

Title: Opacity (The demon, the angel, the god)   
Rating: G   
Warnings: Mild angst, frustration, slashy non-slash   
Coupling: Crowley-crushing   
Disclaimer: Not mine. Gneil and Pterry's.   
Notes: I've been trying to overcome my writer's block, and thought rehashing my view of the Crowley/Aziraphale couple would help me get back into the swing of things. ^-^; Short, lots of Tomo-stretching-her-vocabulary. XD 

~Tomo Trillions   
knivesnomiko.pitas.com 

~~~~ 

Love, Crowley reflected, was not a red emotion. 

No, not at all. 

In fact, were he pressed to designate one color for that most despiccable emotion, he would choose something more along the lines of mucky brown or a very dark black. 

Why? 

When you threw paints together on a palate and smeared and smeared, those were the colors you created, mottled, sickly colors with no real hue and swirls of all the others. Love, he supposed, was quite like that. Emotions, all of them, blended up in uneven chunks that altered each time you swirled the concoction again. Something knew, unguessed, impervious to your attempts at making sense of it all. 

It was oblique and unpredictable. It never came out the way you thought it would. 

Black, the scientists say, appears dark because it absorbs all color without reflecting any chosen hue. It pulls things in, mercilessly, opaque and colorless. 

Crowley knew firsthand that love shared that supposed trait with his favorite color as well - the two sensations were almost inseperable. One of the things that had been ripped away from _him_ was the well-protected scar where he fancied his heart had once been. 

Surely, he felt, love was divine. Surely God had created it and set it loose on the world, some time long ago...He, as a demon, had probably contracted it simply by continuous exposure during his time on earth. A slow blood-poisoning, now too deeply ingrained for him to ever cast aside. 

It was a depressing possibility. 

Crowley stared defiantly over the rim of his sunglasses, a silent paroxysm of adoration stealing over his thoughts. The angel was still looking back at him with a wide-eyed stare, pallid and surprised, mouth gaping half-open as his mind wrapped around the simple idea of _love_ being directed at _him_. 

That palpable innocence was the trait that first made the demon Crawly look twice at the angel of the Eastern Gate. 

Surely even an ingenuous angel was capable of love, he reassured himself, stiffly. Surely what he felt was not unrequited, surely his friend and companion had felt the echoes of it to over the long nights since they had first met - over six thousand of them, all the same, all quite lonely. 

"Crowley," the angel began, after another long moment of silence in which Crowley barely dared to meet his eyes. The demon knew what the answer would be even as his name was spoken in soft, forgiving tones... Aziraphale was not used to the concept of hiding his emotions, so at times (like the present) when it would be kinder to prevent emotions from coloring his tone, he was often sorely lacking. "I'm... I'm not sure you quite know what you mean." 

"Ah, angel, but I do." 

"Crowley... I don't feel for you like that." Aziraphale's expression was pleading. "I mean, I do love you - but I don't _love_ you. I can't." 

An opaque, foggy black, like his dark hair, black like the pupils of his snake-eyes, black like the Bentley and the night sky which flowed in through the open windows relentlessly, casting shadowy figures across the floor. 

Love was definitely black. Black because, after everything was said and done, a dying human was thrown back into love - blackness - the love of God... Six feet under would be darker than dark, and they spent the rest of eternity elsewhere as their body was enfolded in the gloom, it would be warm, musty and kind - dark. 

Black, the antithesis of the being before him. 

Perhaps it was not so divine. 

"I'm sorry," whispered Aziraphale. It was not an apology, no - Crowley didn't suppose the angel would be able to regret something like not falling for an enemy. It was more... an apology that he had led Crowley into feeling it necessary to make his feelings known. It was the apology someone murmured when a friend lost a distant relative. Guilt by association. 

Black. 

"I...see," Crowley managed, throat dry and constricted, eyes burning strangely. He hadn't expected more. He hadn't really thought.... no. He _had_ thought. Goddamn love, mixing up reality and dreams, good and evil, confusing him - "Well. I'm just...going now." 

"Crowley - " 

He stepped out of the door, wings spreading from his back before he'd taken six paces, launching the suddenly quite inhuman figure of A.J. Crowley into the night. 

He didn't bother looking back.   



	2. the angel

Title: Opacity (The demon, the angel, the god)   
Rating: G   
Warnings: Mild angst, frustration, slashy non-slash   
Coupling: Crowley-crushing   
Disclaimer: Not mine. Gneil and Pterry's.   
Notes: I've been trying to overcome my writer's block, and thought rehashing my view of the Crowley/Aziraphale couple would help me get back into the swing of things. ^-^; Short, lots of Tomo-stretching-her-vocabulary. XD 

~Tomo Trillions   
knivesnomiko.pitas.com 

~~~~   


Aziraphale was left standing on his feet, empty-headed, as his mind burst out into every direction, shock and awe leaving him nothing but a shell for a few very slow-moving moments. Everything moved slowly, especially time... He watched, somewhat detachedly, as his demonic counterpart squirmed within his private thoughts, embarrassed and nervous with the confession that had just slipped past his lips. 

Love. A beautiful thing, were it reciprocated, a trying, strange and unusual pinnacle of sensations and perfection and emotion - love, the ultimate caring, the ultimate kindness, the ultimately most profound gift God had given humanity. 

Aziraphale remembered the first lovers, yes, he had stayed guard over their sleeping faces and watched them breath, off beat, together. Silently, he had stood admiring the way his Father had constructed to beings that fit against one another so perfectly in the dusky twilight, his sword on his back, forgotton. The angel had witnessed peasant families circled around their Bibles, artists attempting to capture the shift and movement of two dancers together - he'd seen kings fall for their lovers, and lovers elavated to the status of kings. He knew love when he saw it. 

The demon shifted again, looking as close to mortified as a demon could get, and Aziraphale mused that indeed, he did appear to be in love. 

Or believe he was so in love that the emotion had become a reality. 

The angel's eyes were soft and confused as he studied Crowley's pale face, the way his fingers twitched across his chest, arms folded. The demon was looking away, studying something else entirely, as Aziraphale wrestled with the idea. Love. From a demon. Towards an angel. 

Surely that was a most precious thing! For Crowley to feel love, he was slowly returning to God, surely. Surely. 

Yet...it did not feel quite so holy. 

Love was something the angel had never given thought to, because it was always, always there. It always _had_ been. Between them had been first a few terse words, then slowly, conversation: and now they were so friendly, closer than either had ever been to another being. Love was the only word the angel could summon up to describe such emotions. 

He knew, however, despite his angelic origins and appropriately naive mindset , Crowley did not mean the sort of love that permanantly permeated the angel's state of being. 

"Crowley," the angel began to speak, nervous in this new territory. "I'm... I'm not sure you quite know what you mean." 

But Crowley did know. 

He meant the selective, suspicious, sexual sort of love. He meant the love that overpowered a being, pulled their mind towards itself, the love that was inescapable for most human beings. Human beings, but not _angels_. 

"Ah, angel, but I do." 

Aziraphale felt his heart sink into his stomach as the demon turned his head. Love, to an angel, was life itself. Love to Aziraphale was not a strange thing, it was unavoidable - he loved deeply, he loved often, he loved _everything._

The greedy stranger that paused to pick up a coin from the gutters, the selfish corperate leader behind the long wooden table, the old woman snipping roses so that new buds might grow - they were equally worthy of love. Aziraphale could not help it. 

Yes, even the stubborn, headstrong demonic 'young man', with flashing snake-eyes and a charming grin was included on the list of beings to be cared for. He had been for at least six thousand years, when they had first met, Aziraphale had loved him and had loved him ever since. 

But.... 

"Crowley... I don't feel for you like that." Aziraphale's expression was pleading, his eyes begging his opposite to understand. "I mean, I do love you - but I don't _love_ you. I can't." 

How could he love one more than all the others? Would that be fair to the world of people that depending on him for so many little things they never realized? He couldn't. An angel could no more single out one being more worthy of love than he could sin - it was not the same method, but had the same end. 

Oh, he did love Crowley. He loved the way his eyes rolled, slitted and golden, when he was exasperated. He loved the slick movements as he withdrew his sunglasses and smiled, usually a greedy, pale smile, but a smile none the less. The way he drove the Bentley, cheerfully keeping up conversation - Aziraphale had always loved Crowley, as he had always loved _everything_. 

The blonde paled slightly, Crowley looked wounded, he did not understand. 

"I'm sorry," whispered Aziraphale. And he was. He was sorry that Crowley had felt it necessary to say such a thing, to throw his feelings out into the open - it was obvious that he had read Aziraphale's affection as something he wanted it to be, rather than what it was - just that. Affection, nothing more. Crowley was...well, not exactly a good person, but he... well... 

_'He deserves the chance to love someone. That someone simply can't be me_.' Aziraphale shook his head, pressing his fingers together behind his back. 

The demon took a stumbling step backwards at the words that struck him like a physical blow, blinking rapidly as if his eyes stung. "I...see," Crowley managed, his voice strangely creaky. Aziraphale wanted to explain, but doubted the words would have any affect - the demon seemed oddly afflicted, licking his lips and staring about for an escapre route. "Well. I'm just...going now." 

"Crowley - " 

Crowley disappeared out the door, leaving the angel with a soft sigh of wings spreading high and wide, before he was gone. 

He thought perhaps a cup of tea would settle his nerves, and moved to the kitchen, his thin fingers automatically following the ritual of teatime, even so late in the evening. 

As he poured his cup, Aziraphale found that he was trembling.   
  



	3. the god

Title: Opacity (The demon, the angel, the god)   
Rating: G   
Warnings: Mild angst, frustration, slashy non-slash   
Coupling: Crowley-crushing   
Disclaimer: Not mine. Gneil and Pterry's.   
Notes: I've been trying to overcome my writer's block, and thought rehashing my view of the Crowley/Aziraphale couple would help me get back into the swing of things. ^-^; Short, lots of Tomo-stretching-her-vocabulary. XD 

~Tomo Trillions   
knivesnomiko.pitas.com 

~~~~   


Love. Indescribable. Implausable. To an extent, impious. 

Every person knows that angels love all. 

And every person will say that demons love none. 

Yet see the demon Crawly, curled in the gutter for all his iniquity, invisible to the world behind his wall of wings and power. See him curse at his own temerity, watch him cry for the emotion he cannot feel, the emotion that burns his mind like a brand of fire, the emotion he will try for years to forget, yet will never be able to ignore. It has taken him over. It will consume him. It will ruin him, for as a demon, he will never be able to forgive himself or his angel for the feelings sown within his soul. He will blame all, in his frustration, and eventually he will be destroyed, a lingering death at the unknowing hands of his angel. 

See the angel Aziraphale, who is troubled, unable to placate his conscience. He sips his tea and wonders what tomorrow will bring, if his friend his safe, if he himself has sinned in pushing aside love when it was freely given by a friend. He wonders if it wouldn't be better to lie and save the un-heart of one lone demon, if that would be the perfect sacrifice of a martyr or the move of a falling angel towards the inferno below. He wonders if falling would be kinder, if love is what lead Lucifer to his fall so many years ago - he would not be far from the truth, were that his guess. 

They have met My expectations in a manner that I find both appropriate and rather saddening. For if any of My creations could dare to question my inscrutable will, it would have been those two. They had potential. 

I suppose I am disappointed. And I am, just a bit. 

Love is not black. It had no color. It has every color. Maybe when the demon Crawly realizes this, he will tell his counterpart, and they might understand. 

Perhaps. 

It's ineffable, don't you agree? 

Well, of course. 

That's what I do best. 


End file.
